Off Duty
by Cadence
Summary: Between "Tabula Rasa" and "Shadowboxing", Peter and Emma find the time to get to know each other a little better.


**Title:** Off Duty  
**Characters/Pairings:** Peter, Emma, vague Peter/Emma  
**Rating:** PG

**Word Count: **1550  
W**arnings:** FLUFF  
**Spoiler alert:** S4 general situations and characters; mentions of 4x05 events  
**Summary:** Between "Tabula Rasa" and "Shadowboxing", Peter and Emma find the time to get to know each other a little better.

There is a coffee shop across the street from Mercy Heights. Despite the many protests of the EMTs, they still do not offer intravenous coffee. As a compromise, the barristas have reserved half of the specials chalk board for a running tally of paramedics served in a week. Any time it hits one hundred, the rest of the paramedics drink free for the rest of the week.

Meg, the barrista with the blue hair and clingy boyfriend, sighs when she sees Peter enter for the second time that day. She raises a pierced eyebrow at him as she swipes the eraser across the chalk board, asking, "Don't you have a home?"

"Of course, I do. You come over all the time," Peter says jerking his chin to his usual table.

"You'll be getting your own board soon, you know," she calls over the loud espresso machine. "No more cheating to boost the numbers for everyone else."

"That's what you said this morning!" And the day before. Peter thinks. The days are a bit blurry for him.

"For here," he adds almost as an afterthought. Meg's eyebrows climb in exaggerated surprise as she carefully empties the paper cup into a large coffee mug.

Peter sets his battered laptop on the table, opening the top. It's getting up there in age, a present from his mother to help him through nursing school, a quiet show of support in the face of his father's and brother's disapproval. He's been meaning to upgrade but life – if the past year could really be characterized that way – has gotten in the way. It almost feels silly using this relic now, whose hipster chic has long since faded and not yet circled back to being hip.

"No, really, do you even believe in sleep?" Meg asks, coming up from behind to set the mug down next to his computer. "Or walls?"

Forcing a smile, Peter tilts his head back to look up at her; this constant concern from everyone is getting to be wearing.

"I believe in supporting local businesses," he says, handing her a ten. She sighs, wandering back to the register to break the bill and take her tip from it.

Three espressos after that first cup and Peter is knee deep into the ASL links he bookmarked long ago when he was helping Mrs. Cavendish transition. It hadn't actually be particularly useful then – nor with any of the rest of the patients he worked with later. Hospice care was rife with special needs, hearing loss often foremost among them, but the nature of the job made each case unique. There was no unifying cause, but for old age itself, to give Peter traction in helping. Mrs. Cavendish relied on home sign after a stroke took most of her spoken language facilities, whereas Mr. St. Clair had no sign and instead spoke loudly and angrily to anyone suggesting he might want to actually use his hearing aids.

Emma is, of course, unique as well. But perhaps this time all of those links will actually be useful. Peter has a strong sense that it's unfair, making her put in all the effort reading his lips. He feels odd and self-conscious so often when she does it, worrying that his crooked lip is just another obstacle.

He'd love to meet her on even ground.

Peter's vision is beginning to blur and his head is starting to pound – either signs of exhaustion or of caffeine withdrawal. He looks up to signal to Meg on an assumption of the latter when he sees her, standing by the door way. Emma's hands are still hesitantly lingering at waist height. She looks ready to turn and push the door back open, but her expressive eyebrows are quirked at him.

Smiling, Peter shrugs, asking her to come in and explain her amusement.

"You look like an idiot," she says after a few short steps to his table.

"You saw that?"

Emma nodded, slipping gracefully into the seat across from his small table. Peter half closes his laptop to better see her. His hands, he admits, are slightly cramped, and looking past Emma he can see the interested, bemused looks of the other patrons. He'd guess not many customers come in to learn a new language. Well, not this one, anyway.

"So, what did I do wrong?" Peter asks lightly.

Emma taps a finger to her lip, pretending to think.

"Oh," she starts, exhalation soft and rounded on the word, "It was just a little mistake. You signed 'I fuck cats.'"

Peter laughs, sound starting deep and almost painful in his chest, totally caught off guard. The more he gets to know her, the more she pulls out her dry, sharp wit, and the more he appreciates it. He's almost too used to the vicious barbs exchanged in his family, and hers come without the tearing, haunting ghosts of second meaning that have made it impossible to laugh for so long.

"That can't be right. I don't even have a cat," Peter returns.

"I do," Emma says; Peter represses another smile at how casually she shares that. "I don't think I can invite you over. I can't trust you around him."

"Then I guess we're restricted to my place."

Peter pretends that's even a remote possibility. There is a strong chance she might object to his lack of furniture and run screaming into the night. Maybe if he had a couch? He contemplates the idea cautiously, rotating it in his mind like it's new and dangerous. He's not sure he's ready for that. Not for a couch, for having a person over. For sleeping and breathing and trying to be more than his job.

Emma has cocked her head at him sometime during his reverie. Her eyebrows are drawn and concerned, but she does not address the worry visible in her eyes, instead gesturing to his uniform.

"Do you ever take it off?"

Aware that this is a good opportunity for a flirtatious rejoinder, Peter merely smiles at her.

"That's not what I mean. I've never seen you off duty."

"I'm off duty now," Peter says mildly. "Hiro left, remember?"

Huffing out an annoyed breath of air, Emma gives him a suspicious look clearly communicating that she is very aware of what he is doing and allowing it out of courtesy alone.

Before she can make that point out loud, Peter adds, "Did he answer all of your questions?"

Emma's expression shutters. She glances to the sides, trying to determine how interested other may be in their conversation..

"No... he didn't," she says eventually.

"Okay," Peter says, shrugging. He leans back in his chair, fixing her with an even look. "What do you want to know?"

She bites her lip, expression serious and concentrated for a long moment.

"Are they ever dangerous?"

Peter sets his hand on the table, a fraction of an inch from hers, the distance between palpable and uncrossable.

"I wish I could say they aren't," he sighs. "There are a lot of dangerous abilities."

"How do you know? How can you control it," she asks urgently. "How do you make it stop?"

Shuddering, Peter glances to the side, looking out the window. It's late in the day now. He can see men and women exiting from the hospital across the street, changing shifts and going home. He thinks he can make out Jackson and Lee sitting on the back of their ambulance. The two EMTs cup their hands together, drinking what Peter assumes is coffee. He was too distracted to notice them coming in earlier.

"You can't always," Peter says haltingly. He hates so much to think about it, but even now he can feel the memory of burning bubbling up within him.

"You...?" Emma asks, touching his hand lightly, drawing his eyes to hers.

Clenching his jaw, he nods.

"What happened?"

Peter ignores the essence of the question.

"There used to be a company, dealing with people like us. They... they weren't always good. But they helped me." Sort of, he thinks bitterly. "So it didn't happen again. I'm all better now."

"Oh. You said used to be..."

"Yeah," Peter says. "They're gone now. Trust me, it's a good thing."

Emma nods hesitantly, unsure of the depth of meaning there. She remains silent for a moment, fingers tapping lightly at the ceramic of Peter cups – making a soft ringing sound now that he notices it. He wonders what it looks like.

"What's your ability?" Emma asks abruptly.

"I never explained?" Peter says. He doesn't know why he's stunned – or no, he does. He's used to everyone knowing. He's used to being _famous_, he admits to himself, chagrined. _Infamous_.

It's refreshing, having someone who has no idea. She doesn't know about the Company, the explosion, alternate futures, evil government plots, or Sylar.

And, he suddenly realizes, she doesn't have to. She's completely free. If there's one good thing that's happened in the last year, it's that they made it safer, so Emma would never have to deal with any of that.

Shocked, giddy at thought, Peter reaches out impulsively for Emma's hand. She lets him take it, curving her hand to fit into his palm. He grins.

"My ability is empathy, but it's a little complicated. Let me explain..."


End file.
